THE ROBE (77 page)

'I should think so. Are you getting warm now?' Demetrius was taking up
the oars. 'Did you find the cap?'

'Yes, it's dreadful. Where are we going now, Demetrius?'

'Over off the mainland, and up the coast to some open beach.'

'And then what, and where?'

'Hide for the day, and row all night tomorrow, and leave the boat
somewhere near Formia. But don't worry. You are off this dangerous island.
Nothing else matters.'

Diana was quiet for a long time. Demetrius had settled to his heavy
task. The oars swept steadily, powerfully, as the dory drove into a rapidly
rising breeze. An occasional wave splashed against the rail and showered them
with spray.

'Demetrius!' called Diana. 'How far is it from Formia to Arpino?'

'Fifty miles--north-east,' shouted Demetrius, between strokes.

'Were you ever there? You seem to be acquainted with that country.'

'No--never there---looked it up--on the map.'

'Are we going to Arpino?'

'Want to?'

Diana did not reply. The breeze was growing stronger and Demetrius was
labouring hard. A wave broke over the side.

'You'll find--leather baling-bucket--up there,' called Demetrius. 'You
aren't frightened--are you?'

'No, not now,' she sang out cheerfully.

'Keep me headed for that row of lights at Puteoli.'

'A little to the right, then. Demetrius, it seems almost as if someone
were looking after us tonight.'

'Yes, Diana.'

'Do you believe that--truly?'

'Yes.'

'Think he will take care of us--if a storm blows up?'

Demetrius tugged the unwieldy old tub out of the trough, and for an
interval rowed hard. Then he replied, in detached phrases, measured by the
sweep of the long oars.

'He has been known--to take care--of his friends--in a storm.'

So impatient was Caligula to occupy his exalted office that the state
funeral of Tiberius (which he did not attend, because of some slight
indisposition) was practically eclipsed by lavish preparations for the
coronation; and, as for Uncle Gaius's obsequies, not many Princes had been put
away with less pomp or at so modest an expense.

Perhaps had Emperor Tiberius been a more popular hero, public sentiment
might have demanded greater respect for the old man's departure, but so little
had been heard of him for the past dozen years that nobody really cared whether
he lived or died. Even in the Senate, where the most eloquent of the Romans
were skilled in saying things they did not mean, the orations extolling
Tiberius were of an appalling dullness.

There was no decent interval of perfunctory mourning. All night, workmen
were busy tearing down the funeral trappings along the Corso and the Via Sacra
through which the Emperor had taken his last ride that afternoon. The older
patricians were shocked by this irreverence; not that they any longer cared a
fig about Tiberius, who, for the Empire's sake, should have had the goodness to
die years ago; but it boded ill for Rome, they felt, to be crowning a youth so
impudently defiant of the proprieties. But the traditions meant as little to
Caligula as the counsel of his dismayed ministers. The stories of his insane
egotism, his fits and rages, and his utter irresponsibility, swept through the
city like a fire.

The coronation festivities lasted for a week and were conducted with an
extravagance that knew no precedent in the experience of any nation's capital.
Hundreds of thousands were fed and wined, and welcomed to the games, which for
wanton brutality and reckless bloodshed quite surpassed anything that Rome had
ever seen. The substantial citizenship of the Empire stood aghast, stunned to
silence. As for the habitually empty-bellied rabble, Little Boots was their
man. So long as he dished out bread and circuses it was no concern of theirs
how or whether the bill was settled. Indeed, Little Boots led them to believe
that it was by his personal generosity that they were fed and entertained, and
was forthright in his denunciation of the wealthy, who, he shouted, were
responsible for the people's poverty.

Old Sejanus, frightened and desperate, came before the Senate to
remonstrate and plead for immediate action; but nothing was done, and that
night Sejanus was assassinated. Crafty old Julia, who had come to Rome
expecting to be glorified as the Empress dowager, was hustled on to the
imperial barge without ceremony and shipped back to Capri.

The palace reeked of dissolute parties that continued for days and
nights and days. All the common decencies were abandoned. Uninvited hundreds
crowded into the banquets. Priceless art objects were overturned and broken on
the mosaic floors. Riotous guests slipped and rolled down the slimy marble
stairways. Never had so many been so drunk.

Triumphal processions, hastily improvised in celebration of some
half-forgotten holiday, would move out unannounced into the avenue, bearing in
the foremost golden chariot the garishly arrayed, drunken, dishevelled,
grimacing, twitching Emperor, sowing handfuls of sesterces into the hysterical
street-crowds from a grain-bag that Quintus held in his arms, while the greedy
rabble fought in the filthy gutters like dogs, and the pompous Quintus--Little
Boots' favourite--laughed merrily at the sport, his lips still cut and swollen
from the brutal slapping he had received from the bejewelled hands of old
Julia's whimsical grandson. The patricians kept to their villas, inarticulate
and numb with cold anger and despair. There was nothing they could do. They did
not protest when Caligula ordered that the heads be knocked off the venerated
busts of the great in the Forum, and marble models of his own installed with
impressive ceremonies. They did not protest when he fitted up a gold-and-ivory
stall in the palace for his horse Incitatus, nor did they protest when he
elevated Incitatus to the rank of Consul.

The populace laughed inopportunely when Little Boots announced that
Incitatus was divine; and, annoyed that this declaration should have been taken
lightly, he brought forth an edict demanding that his distinguished horse must
henceforth be worshipped in the temples, to the considerable embarrassment of
the priests, whose dignity (by reason of other eccentric orders from the
throne) was already somewhat in need of repair.

Almost every day the Emperor savagely inquired of Quintus whether any
progress had been made in his search for the haughty and beautiful daughter of
Gallus, and would be freshly enraged to learn that no trace of her had been
discovered. A guard had been set about the absent Legate Gallus's villa.
Paula's movements--if the unhappy woman could be said to move at all--were
carefully watched. Her servants were questioned, threatened, tortured. On
Capri, the guard Acteus and three wharf attendants had been put to death. And
Quintus had been advised that he had better contrive some more favourable news
of his far-flung investigation if he knew what was good for him.

But Quintus's failure to find Diana was due to no lack of personal
interest in this quest. For one thing, when they found Diana they would
probably find Demetrius too. He had a score to settle there. It fretted him
that he had not been told of the Greek's presence on the island when he had
visited the Empress, at Gaius's behest, to implore her to take Caligula off his
hands.

Of course it was possible that Diana and Demetrius might have been
drowned. Their dory had been found adrift. The weather had been stormy. Nobody
along the coast, all the way up from Formia to Capua had seen anything of the
fugitives.

Little Boots fumed and shouted. Diana was the only person he knew who
had regarded him with undisguised contempt. Moreover, according to the story of
her escape from Capri, she had plenty of courage. It would be a pleasure to
break her, he muttered. Quintus's mobile lips still smiled obsequiously, but
his brows contracted in a cautioning frown.

'The slave, Demetrius, Your Majesty, who contrived her flight, should be
disposed of before the daughter of Gallus is taken.'

'Why?' barked Caligula. 'Is the slave in love with her? You said she was
in love with that mad Tribune who crucified the Jew, and lost his head over
thinking he had killed a god.'

Quintus's eyes had lighted with surprise that Little Boots remembered
what he had told him about the Galilean, and the large following he had
attracted. Caligula had been so very drunk, and had seemed to pay no attention.
Apparently the story had impressed him.

'True, Your Majesty,' said Quintus. 'This Demetrius was the slave of
Marcellus, the son of old Gallio. Doubtless he has sworn to protect Diana.'

'If he can!' sneered Caligula.

'If he cannot, sire, and Diana is captured, this Greek would not
hesitate to risk his life in avenging her.'

'Pouf! What could he do? You are a timid fool, Quintus! Do you think
this slave would force a violent entrance into our presence?'

'The Greek is a dangerous man, Your Majesty,' warned Quintus. 'He was
once reckless enough to attack a Tribune with his bare hands!'

'And lived?' shouted Caligula.

'Quite openly! And became a member of the Emperor's guard at the Villa
Jovis!'

'Did Tiberius know of the slave's crime?'

'Doubtless. The Empress knew--for I told her.'

'Who was the Tribune that the Greek attacked?'

Quintus fidgeted, and Caligula, eyeing him sharply, burst into laughter.
Quintus flushed, and grinned sheepishly.

'Emperor Tiberius never liked me, sire,' he mumbled.

'Perhaps the old man appointed the slave a member of his guard to reward
him,' chuckled Caligula. 'Well, here is your chance to settle with this savage.
Find him--and run him through!' he advised, with an appropriate gesture.

Quintus pursed his lips and slowly elevated a prudent shoulder.

'I should not enjoy fighting a duel with a slave, Your Majesty.'

Little Boots rocked with laughter.

'Not with this one, in any case!' He suddenly sobered and scowled. 'You
make haste to find that Greek! If you are afraid to meet him, let a braver man
attend to it! We do not like the idea of his being at large. But tell me more
of this Marcellus, who threw himself into the sea. He became a follower of the
Jew, eh? Does the daughter of Gallus entertain such notions?'

Quintus said he didn't know, but that he had reason to believe the Greek
slave was a Christian, as he had consorted with these people in Jerusalem.

'But he fights, eh?' commented Caligula. 'It was our understanding that
this crazy Jesus-cult does not permit fighting.'

'Well, that may be so, Your Majesty,' conceded Quintus, 'but if this Greek
is enraged, he will not ask anybody's permission to fight. He is a wild
animal.'

Little Boots nervously picked at his pimples.

'What do you think of the strength of our palace guard, Quintus?'

'They are awake, sire, and loyal.'

'It would be quite impossible for an assassin to enter our bedchamber,
eh?'

'From without, yes, Your Majesty. But if the Greek decided to kill the
Emperor, he might not try to enter the palace. He would probably leap up over
the Emperor's chariot-wheel with a dagger.'

'And be instantly bludgeoned to death by the people,' declared Caligula,
his chin working convulsively.

'Of course, Your Majesty,' assented Quintus, not displeased to note
Little Boots's agitation. 'But the bludgeoning might come too late to be of
service to the Emperor. As for the Greek, if he decided upon revenge, he would
not haggle at the price.'

Caligula held up a shaky goblet and Quintus made haste to replenish it.

'Hereafter, there must be better protection of our person when we are
before the people. There must be a strong double guard marching on either side
of the imperial chariot, Quintus. You shall see to it!'

'Your Majesty's order will be obeyed. But if I may venture to say so,
this danger could be avoided, sire. Let the daughter of Gallus--if she still lives--go
her way unmolested. The Emperor would have no comfort with her; and to keep her
in chains might provoke much unrest in the army where Legate Gallus is held in
high esteem.'

Little Boots drank deeply, and hiccoughed with a surly grin.

'When we need your advice, Quintus, we will ask for it. The Emperor of
the Roman Empire does not inquire whether his decisions are approved by every
legionary in the army.' Little Boots's voice rose shrilly. 'Nor are we
concerned over the mutterings of the fat old men in the Senate! We have the
people with us!'

Quintus smiled obediently, but offered no comment.

'Speak up, fool!' screamed Little Boots. 'The people are with us!'

'As long as they are fed, Your Majesty,' ventured Quintus.

'We shall feed them when we like,' snarled Little Boots, thickly.

Quintus did not reply to that. Observing that the large silver goblet
was empty again, he refilled it.

'And when we stop feeding them, what then?' challenged Little Boots,
truculently. 'Is there to be disorder--and do we have to lash them back to
their kennels?'

'Hungry people, sire,' said Quintus, quietly, 'can make themselves very
annoying.'

'By petty pillaging? Let them steal! The owners of the markets are rich.
Why should we concern our self about that? But we will tolerate no mobs, no
meetings!'

'It is not difficult, Your Majesty, to deal with mobs,' remarked
Quintus. 'They can be quickly dispersed after the spokesmen are apprehended. It
is not so easy to break up the secret meetings.'

Caligula set down his goblet, and scowled darkly.

'What kind of people are they who dare to hold secret meetings?'

Quintus deliberated a reply, frowning thoughtfully.

'I have not mentioned this to Your Majesty, because the Emperor is
already burdened with cares; but it is believed that there are many followers
of this new Galilean cult.'

'Ah, the people who are forbidden to fight. Let them meet! Let them
whisper! How many are there?'

'Nobody knows, sire. But we have word that the party is growing. Several
houses, where numbers of men were seen to enter nightly, have been watched. In
a few cases the patrol has entered, finding no disorder, no arms, and
apparently no heated talk. In each instance, no more meetings were held in the
house that had been investigated. That probably means they resolved to meet
elsewhere. Prince Gaius had been investigating them for months, but without
much success.'

'It's a small matter,' mumbled Caligula, drowsily. 'Let them meet and
prattle. If they want to think their dead Jew is divine, what of it? Incitatus
is divine'--he giggled, drunkenly--'but nobody cares much.'

'But these Christians claim that the Galilean is not dead, sire,'
rejoined Quintus. 'According to their belief, he has been seen on many
occasions since his crucifixion. They consider him their King.'

'King!' Little Boots suddenly stirred from his torpor. 'We will see to
that! Let them believe what else they please about this Jew, but we will have
no nonsense about his kingship! Arrest these fools, wherever you find them, and
we will break this thing up before it starts!'

'It has started, Your Majesty,' said Quintus, soberly. 'All Palestine is
full of it. Recently the party has become strong enough to come out openly in
Corinth, Athens, and other Grecian cities.'

'Where are the authorities?' demanded Caligula. 'Are they asleep?'

'No, Your Majesty. The leaders have been imprisoned and some have been
put to death; but these people are fanatically brave. They think that if they
die for this cause they shall live again.'

'Bah!' shouted Caligula. 'Not many will be found believing in such
rubbish! And the few who do believe it will be helpless nobodies!'

Quintus sat silently for a while with his eyes averted.

'Cornelius Capito is anxious about it, sire. He estimates that there are
more than four thousand of these Christians in Rome at the present hour.'

'And what is he doing about this treason?' demanded Caligula.

Quintus shook his head.

'It is a strange movement, sire. It has only one weapon--its belief that
there is no death. Cornelius Capito is not equipped to crush something that
refuses to die when it is killed.'

'You are talking like a fool, Quintus!' mumbled Caligula. 'Command this
cowardly old dotard to come here tomorrow, and give an account of himself! And
see you to it that the Greek slave is arrested before many days have passed.
Bring him here alive, if possible.' The imperial voice was becoming incoherent.
'Call the Chamberlain. We would retire.'

If, on his far-away travels, some chance acquaintance had asked
Marcellus Gallio whether he knew his way about in Rome, he would have replied
that he surely ought to know Rome, seeing he had lived there all his life.

He was now discovering that it was one thing to know Rome from the
comfortable altitude of a wealthy young Tribune, son of an influential Senator,
and quite another thing to form one's estimates of Rome from the viewpoint of
an unemployed, humbly dressed wayfarer, with temporary lodgings at a drovers'
tavern hard by the public markets that crawled up the bank of the busy Tiber to
front a cobbled, crowded, littered street, a street that clamoured and
quarrelled and stank--all day and all night.

It had not yet been disclosed to Marcellus why he had felt impelled to
return to Rome. He had been here ten days now, jostled by the street crowds,
amazed and disgusted by the shameless greed, filth, and downright indecency of
the unprivileged thousands who lived no better than the rats that overran the
wharf district. The Arpinos had been poor and dirty, too, and ragged and rude;
but they were promptly responsive to opportunities for improvement. Surely
these underdogs of Rome were not of a different species? Marcellus tried to
analyse the problem. Perhaps this general degradation was the result of too
much crowding, too little privacy, too much noise. You couldn't be decent if
you weren't intelligent; you couldn't be intelligent if you couldn't think--and
who could think in all this racket? Add the stench to the confusion of cramped
quarters, and who could be self-respecting? Marcellus felt himself deteriorating;
hadn't shaved for three days. He had a good excuse. The facilities of
Apuleius's tavern were not conducive to keeping oneself fit. Nobody shaved;
nobody was clean; nobody cared.

On the day of the Emperor's funeral, Marcellus was in the sweating,
highly flavoured throng that packed the plaza in front of the Forum Julium as
the solemn procession arrived for the ceremonies. He was shocked to see how his
father had aged in these recent weeks. Of course he had had much to worry
about. There was a haunted expression on the faces of all these eminent men,
and no wonder; for the Empire was in a shameful plight indeed! Marcellus winced
at the sight of Senator Gallio, who had ever borne himself with such stately
dignity, and had now surrendered to despair. It made his heart ache.

Day after day, for another fortnight, he wandered about the streets,
pausing now and then to listen to a hot dispute, or ask a friendly question of
a neighbour; but usually men turned away when he tried to engage them in
conversation. By his tone and manner, he was not their sort, and they
distrusted him. And always the memory of his father's melancholy face and
feeble step haunted him.

One evening, intolerably depressed, he dispatched a message to Marcipor,
stating briefly where he was living, and requesting a private interview at such
a time and place as Marcipor might suggest; preferably not at the tavern of
Apuleius. Two hours later the messenger returned with a letter directing
Marcellus to go out, the next day, along the Via Appia, until he came to the
old Jewish cemetery. Marcipor would meet him there about mid-afternoon.

Marcellus remembered the place. There was an interesting story about it.
Two centuries ago, when Antiochus had conquered Palestine, life had been made
so wretched for the Jews that thousands of them had migrated, and Rome had got
more than her share. Alarmed by the volume of this immigration, laws were
passed to restrict the liberties of these refugees. They were banished to the
wrong side of the Tiber, limited as to the occupations they might pursue,
denied Roman citizenship, and--as the animosity against them
increased--ruthlessly persecuted.